What I Don't Know

 My son bought a car for one hundred dollars. Mind you, this is not the car from whence he tore out the V8 engine to put in his "project car." This was no donor. No, rather this was one hundred dollars worth of slightly used German engineering: a BMW station wagon. The deal was made with a friend of his who was getting ready to take eighty dollars for it to be hauled away for charity. Twenty dollars more made the charity my son. 

This vehicle was not purchased sight unseen. He gave it the once-over and ascertained that his friend and his family were conscientious objectors to the turning of a wrench. The thought of having to put a catalytic converter on this beast seemed incomprehensible to them. Did I mention that my son tore an engine out of a car and, after some fits and starts, made it run the car he bought in high school? Turning a wrench is what he does. As for the delicate bits of the installation he figured he could probably get another friend to weld the part on "for a case of beer." And probably not really good beer, either. 

So the exchange was made: cash for clunker. Except it turned out not to be such a clunker after all. On a hunch, my son took it to see if it would pass an emission test without a new catalytic converter. 

It did. He saved the money on the part, and the case of beer. Suddenly he was the proud owner of a late model BMW station wagon with, after a minor adjustment, a working sunroof. There are still some bits and pieces that need to be set right, like a seatbelt buckle and the driver's seat lists a little to port, but otherwise it's in fine shape.

One hundred dollars.

I keep coming back to this because my first car cost me eight hundred eighty dollars. That bought me a copper colored Chevy Vega. About nine times more expensive in 1978 dollars. For a Vega. When I was running up the hill near my house, I spied a Honda Odyssey minivan parked by the curb. As I passed, I noticed the scrawled message on the back window, "$1500 OBO." Or Best Offer. It occurred to me that my son could have acquired a fleet of BMW station wagons for fifteen hundred dollars. Furthermore, I realized that in a fit of parental generosity, I bought him a tank of gas for his new ride. 

That little gesture cost me sixty dollars. 

I know nothing about cars.